Moon

Josh Glahn

Even a common sight has its moment of rebirth,
a sky devoid of birds,
alien and entrenched 
against the moonlit night. Beyond your window lies
a city drowned by wailing crickets.

And when you see the path extending on,
the road stares back at you,
and the Moon
impaled on the spike of a cypress,
you ask “God, is it all still out there?
May we still seek it
with whispered tones?”

The water watches us from within its pools,
through the resting trees
with their rouge blossoms.
“Never take from me, God,
the sorrow of your monumental playthings.”